A-Wholes

Grocery shopping is one of my favorite activities. But, more often than not, my zeal wears off the minute five people decide to have a neighborhood watch meeting in the middle of an aisle; or two post-coital undergrads’ steamy make-out session overflows into my cart; or a buttoned-up asshole hovers right in frontof, but makes no move toward,the flour. And then there are the inattentive parents.

I have held two babies approximately three times—meaning, three times between the two. Clearly, I’m no baby-whisperer. And I don’t want to be, because that just sounds creepy. It’s clear that parents have to deal with drooling, pooping, crying machines at home every single day. And then there’s the baby.

Now, I don’t mean to sound callous. Several of my closest friends have recently had children, and they’re ridiculously adorable, and have even made this cynical brute smile and coo. I know what you’re thinking: He’s not butch enough to be a “brute.” And you’d be right. But here’s the thing: I can deal with kids; I can watch them if need be; I can let them drool on my hands; I can—with enough liquor in me—probably change a diaper without vomiting. More than that, though, I can respect every parent’s decision to have their kid.

Just don’t let little Sundance run in front of my cart while you ogle the quinoa and ask the Whole Foods sample table staffer if the probiotic salad dressing—hand-squeezed from free-range honey badgers that morning—is really organic. Because I’ll run the little munchkin over. Dimples and all.

And I have.

Here’s the scene three months ago: I’m pushing my cart after a long work day, and trying not to freak out about the fact that the three things I’ve gotten total approximately thirty dollars. And then something squeaks, and my cart comes to an abrupt halt. Or maybe it’s more of an “Eeeek.” Regardless, I look down and notice there’s a child stuck under the front end of my cart. I’m not kidding: Kid-under-cart on Aisle Five. Then again, I don’t think Whole Foods has “Aisles.”

And I just stare. Because, I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I’m wearing work clothes, and the kid might be bleeding.